Reversal
by Little Knight Mik
Summary: AU - Jocelyn did her best to run. She did her best to make sure she could escape with even just one of her children. But things never turned out the way she'd planned—and sixteen years later, the same seems to be said of Jace Fray's situation.
1. Prologue

**Full description:** Jocelyn did her best to run. She did her best to make sure she could escape with even just one of her children. But things never turned out the way she'd planned—and sixteen years later, the same seems to be said of Jace Fray's situation. With his mother missing and strange creatures hunting him down, it's a struggle just for Jace to admit he isn't going crazy and that the pretty girl with the glowing blade isn't a murderer.

 **Short opening chapter but hey, it's mostly to look at Jocelyn during and after the Uprising. Not sure when I'll update this, since it's mostly a project to do in between other stories when they get too difficult to work through, so I hope you enjoy this little prologue until the next one comes out!**

* * *

 **Idris, 1991**

There's chaos everywhere. She'd imagined just how the Uprising would turn out, the possible outcomes haunting her nightmares, but none of those feverish dreams compare to what she sees right here, right now.

She fends off one of the Circle members—one of her former comrades, friends—and pushes through the swarm of screams and horror. Jocelyn wishes it had been different, wishes it had never gotten to this point. She steps past the body of a fallen warlock, her heart heavy as she locks gazes with his own dead, green eyes. She's seen countless battles not unlike this one, fought demons that turned their victims into walking blisters just waiting to burst. But this is too much for even Jocelyn to bear.

Above all else, she has to make sure her children are okay. Barely even a year old, the two of them, and they're stuck in the manor while something as chaotic as this goes on in Alicante. The werewolves of Brocelind Forest run past her, some of them in their wolf forms and others wielding weapons to use against the Circle. It's hard to watch as she witnesses Lucian, her old friend, sprint past her with his fangs bared and his skin tearing under the pressure of the wolf threatening to break free.

Jocelyn makes it out of the Accords Hall, miraculously unscathed as she sheaths her dagger. Her blood is burning as she breaks into a sprint, blazing past others who are trying to squeeze their way into the Hall. She can see smoke rising in the distance, coming from what looks to be the area the manors are. Jocelyn feels just the barest hints of panic as she watches it blacken and cloud up. Please let it be someone else's home. Please let her children be okay.

Dread sets in when she sees Fairchild manor in the distance, the beginnings of a fire flickering within.

Jocelyn screeches and kicks down the door as best she can, calling for her children. For the toddler Clarissa; for the infant Jonathan. Smoke hits her face the moment she starts ascending the stairs, racing for the children's room; in a fit of panic, Jocelyn tears at the ends of her dress and wraps it around the lower half of her face. Silk and delicate sheer fabric do little to shield her lungs from the smoke, but it's better than nothing.

She sprints past burning paintings and curtains, eyes locked on the door at the end of the hall. Her heart races as she gets closer and closer to the kids' room; had Valentine been at the Hall when the blaze had started? Was there too little time for him to make it here and start the fire? He wouldn't do it now—he wouldn't do it while their own children were inside, would he?

The door gives way easily as she smashes her weight into it, and she almost regrets doing so. Jocelyn has to hold back a sob as she spots the first of the bodies on the floor—her own mother, Adele, in a pool of her own blood. To have been slain in front of the children—to have slain his own mother-in-law—

A weak cry comes from further in the room. Tears prick at her eyes as she runs over to the cot by the window. It's Jonathan's cot, placed a short distance away from Clarissa's small bed, and within it is one solitary baby. Jocelyn almost weeps at the sight of her baby, her son; despite all the struggles she'd had with loving him after his birth, it is now, seeing him alive in his time of need, that she truly feels relieved that he is safe.

Jocelyn takes the baby into her arms, covering his face as best she can with the fabric of her jacket. Nestled closely to her chest, able to hear the beating of her heart, Jonathan stills and clings to her like a lifeline.

All at once, she runs out of the room and shrieks, " _Clarissa_!"

There is no answer, so sign of her baby anywhere. She panics as she tries to move further into the manor, hoping to cover more ground and find Clarissa hiding somewhere safe. The chandelier above the lobby breaks free of its chain, and it crashes to the ground with the force of a tsunami. Jocelyn panics, looking over the rail to see if anyone had been down there—if the doors are still unobscured. She thinks she sees someone, familiar red hair illuminated by the fire slowly creeping toward the chandelier.

It isn't until she's at the last step that she realises what the chandelier had landed on. At first she doesn't recognise him, his head practically bashed in by one of the chandelier's branches; but it soon becomes apparent that Valentine is one of the two stuck under the brass decoration, unmoving and lifeless.

Jocelyn can feel herself becoming lightheaded as she tries to peek around his body—to see if that red hair is really Clarissa, to see if Clarissa had really been killed in the same manner. Jonathan fidgets, coughing weakly against her dress. She can feel a small hand weakly rapping at her chest, trying to get her attention— _get out, mother; I can't breathe_.

It pains her to leave Clarissa behind, the tears no longer held back as she runs out of the manor and into the open field. Jonathan is still coughing as Jocelyn sinks to her knees in front of the burning manor; she screams and sobs, tearing at the grass with her free hand.

This is truly, _truly_ worse than any nightmare she'd ever had.

* * *

 **New York, 1999  
New Year's Eve**

The wine glass is light in her hand, the chardonnay swirling with each twist of her wrist. It's still a good three hours until midnight, but she can't help open the wine bottle early. She does it every year. Why stop now?

The lights are off and the TV is playing the annual countdown to New Year's. A band is performing—some popular mundane group she has yet to remember the name of—while hordes of people cheer and wave around glow sticks. Beside her, wrapped in his dinosaur blanket, is her son.

Jocelyn sips at the wine as the intrusive thought hits her— the thought that this is not her son. It's been eight years, she tells that nagging voice in the back of her mind. She's raised this boy from infancy, and she'll be damned if she doesn't see him as her own son. It may be true that calling him Jonathan fills her with pain, that it's easier to pretend that she had a third child named Jace, but he is her son nonetheless.

His blond curls bounce as he bobs his head to the music. There's a big smile on his face as he watches the screen, eyes wide and focused entirely on the band. She notes to herself that he needs to have his hair cut just a little bit shorter. Perhaps he'll let her do it this time around instead of putting up a fuss, squirming around everywhere and crying that his hair won't grow back.

There's a knock at the door behind them. Jocelyn barely even have to get up from her seat—Jace jumps from his spot, blanket falling to the floor in abandon, and runs for the front door with a cry of, "I'll get it!"

The door opens. Jace laughs loudly as Luke's voice rings through the apartment. The door shuts behind them.

"Uncle Luke is here!" Jace calls. He sounds like his voice is strained, the way it comes out when Luke slings the boy over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Momma—it's Uncle Luke!"

Jocelyn allows herself a smile as she turns to look at the two. It's a fine sight to behold, her best friend carrying her adopted son with the ease and familiarity one would their own child. It's no wonder Jace had taken to Luke so quickly; he's a man who's gifted with children.

"Did Uncle Luke bring snacks for midnight?" Jocelyn asks Jace, brow raised curiously. Luke struggles to keep his hold on Jace as the blond boy squirms around to properly sit on his shoulder.

Instead of asking, Jace looks down at Luke with wide eyes and a questioning hum. Luke chuckles to himself as he raises the shopping bag in his other hand, holding it out towards Jocelyn as he walks closer to the couch. From what she can see through the thin plastic, he's grabbed everything that Jace likes—with, of course, the addition of a cheese platter for himself and Jocelyn.

"I didn't know which cheese was best with chardonnay," Luke admits. He puts Jace back down on the ground, allowing the little ball of energy to leap onto the couch once more and peek over at the shopping bag. "So I just bought any I could find."

Jocelyn hums with a small smile. "It's brie, for future reference," she tells him. "I appreciate the thought, though. Want a glass?"

He nods, and then the countdown resumes. Jace watches the rest of the band's concert, almost letdown when they clear the stage for the next performer. Luke, after his second glass of wine, suggests to Jace that they go to a nearby batting cage on Sunday; it's met with a screech of agreement. Jocelyn, munching on the last of the Dutch cheese, watches as the timer in the corner of the screen takes over the entire program. Ten seconds to midnight. Ten seconds to New Year's.

Ten seconds to another year without her babies.

Ten seconds to another year with her baby.


	2. Chapter 1

**New York, 2007  
August**

The strawberry gum has long since lost its flavour, but Jace can't bring himself to reach into his pocket and pull out a fresh stick. He's on a strong streak with his swings, each ball fired from the pitching machine coming in hard contact with his bat. Jace can confidently say that today is a pretty solid practice, and he may just be ready to tackle the cutter that one kid in the neighbourhood is infamous for using.

It's just himself and Simon in the cage, enjoying the fresh air and cool breeze; it's a nice break from the warm sun that's been gracing New York for a good few weeks now. It's the first time in a while that Simon has been able to wear a jacket, and for once Jace is glad to get back into his jersey. It's his old high school jersey—the one he'd wear before he decided to take a break for the year—and it's miraculous that it even still fits. It's seen better days; the old 22 stitched into the back is falling apart at the seams, while the A in the "Fray" stitched above it is missing.

Another ball is pitched to him, and he knocks it far into the field with ease. Simon lets out a low whistle from the bench, while Jace just clicks his tongue and begins to fold his gum between his teeth.

"Swing batter, batter," Simon calls. He must be getting bored—not that Jace can blame him. He's been in the cage for a good hour now.

Jace slumps his shoulders and glances over at Simon. He's got his hands cupped around his face, bored expression in his gaze, as he slouches in his seat. The epitome of boredom for Simon Lewis.

"Just two more swings," Jace tells him. "Promise. Then we'll do something else."

"About time." Simon stands up and stretches. He looks exasperated at the wait he's had to sit through, but his tone is playful and joking. "You know all this practice just makes you look obsessed with the kid, right?"

Jace scoffs at him. "Simon. Si. My pride was damaged by a thirteen-year-old." The pitching machine fires another baseball. Instead of hitting it, Jace steps aside and lets it collide with the back of the cage. Simon holds up one finger—one swing, despite Jace not even attempting to hit it. "It's a matter of life and death that I challenge him once I get into the zone."

"The zone," Simon says blandly. "Jace, you're just swinging a metal stick at a ball."

"Which is one of the hardest things to do in sports!" Jace insists. "You need good hand-eye coordination. A strong upper body. Other junk."

Simon blinks at him. "Oh, yes. So difficult."

Jace holds his arms up, hoping to coming off as though provoking the younger boy, as he lets out a low groan. Simon just blinks at him again, undeterred by the blond's behaviour as he starts walking towards the cage. His finger is still held up to count, barely wavering as he descends the steps connected to the seats.

A second finger raises. Jace looks at Simon in alarm before whirling on his heel. He barely even sees the baseball speed towards him before it collides harshly with his side.

Shouting out curses that would make his mother scream, Jace drops to the ground and curls up into a ball. His side throbs and aches, somehow in a rush to start bruising only seconds after impact. Another ball is launched from the pitching machine—colliding with the cage—before the machine is switched off and Jace is left to listen to Simon's sneakers squashing the grass beneath them.

"Walk it off, champ," Simon tells him.

Jace groans and rolls onto his back. The sun is barely peeking out of a cloud above him, forcing him to squint up at Simon with a frown. "I think I swallowed by gum," he whispers.

Simon just kicks at Jace's ankle lightly. He's swallowed gum plenty of times before, Jace notes, so it's really not much of an emergency for Simon. If anything, it probably looks like Jace is being a gigantic baby to the younger boy.

With a groan, Jace pushes himself up into a sitting position and says, "Fine, fine. We can go now."

There's a satisfied smile on the brunet's face as he watches Jace stand up. "About time, Fray," he says. "If we leave now, we'll have time to catch Eric's poetry."

Jace grimaces. "My favourite."

It's almost become a weekly routine for them, now that they're heading towards the last stretch of the season. Of a midweek morning Jace and Simon do something that pertains to their interests, plan their weekends and exchange ideas for band names; come the afternoon, they have lunch at Jace's favourite place in the world—Java Jones—as they watch Eric Hillchurch make a fool of himself without knowing it. As much as Jace likes being supportive, there's a very fine line between toning down a hard truth and actually lying to someone's face.

He could almost cry, he thinks as he and Simon leave the cage. Eric's poetry is just too much to bear at times, and no one in the band seems to want to tell him. Jace expects at least some kind of compensation for being such a good, strong-willed friend.

Java Jones isn't far from the brownstone Jace and his mother live in, only a good few blocks for him to walk each week. Jace has, on occasion, even used Java Jones as a pit stop during his morning jogs; there's something about the smell of fresh coffee in the morning that really perks him up. Though it doesn't take long for the staff setting up the stage in the middle of the cafe to bring him back down again. Simon holds open the door for him, earning an overdramatic thanks from Jace. They scan the area, looking for a spot to sit, and find only a couch covered in a rug available.

Jace flops onto it and passes a twenty dollar bill to Simon as the brunet walks past. He barely even needs to say his usual order at this point, the drink practically stuck in the back of Simon's mind every day of the week.

Ten minutes pass before Simon returns, black coffee in one hand and caramel macchiato in the other. Jace takes the macchiato with a wide grin.

"Be honest with me," Simon says as he sinks into the couch. His coffee is placed on the small table next to him, left to cool while he rubs his fingers. "How much of you is macchiato at this point?"

Jace glares at him over the foamy rim of his mug. Simon puts up his hands in surrender, but doesn't back down from his question.

"I'm just saying—you drink the stuff as much as I drink water."

That can't be right. He's never seen Simon drink water as much as Jace orders a macchiato. He's not going to correct him, though; it'll just prove Simon even more right about how frequently Jace drinks them.

He licks some foam off of his thumb before he decides to change the subject, earning the barest of glares from Simon. Jace ignores him as he says, "Any ideas for what to do this weekend? I feel like doing something fun."

Simon picks up his coffee and blows carefully at the steam rising from it. "We could always start that Dungeons and Dragons campaign we've been kicking around," he suggests. He takes a sip of the coffee, only to hiss and put the mug back onto the table.

"Nah." Jace waves a hand dismissively. "Something to get us outside. Lotak the Damned can wait another week."

"What do you have in mind?" Simon blinks at him curiously. "You thinking of challenging that Harrison kid again?"

Jace shakes his head. "It'll make me look desperate if I challenge him less than a week after defeat."

"Trust me, you already look desperate."

"Shut up." He punches Simon's shoulder lazily. Simon lets out a strangled whine in response. "Have we done clubbing? Is that a thing we can do here?"

Simon shrugs. "Not unless they let teenagers in," he points out. "Last I checked, we don't know anyone who could make fake IDs, either."

He groans loudly. Jace sinks into the couch as he sips at the macchiato defiantly. He's really hoping they can go out and do something different for a change, but he can't think of anything outside of clubbing. There's got to be someplace that lets in sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds without a fuss.

Simon pats Jace's shoulder sympathetically. It's the silent gesture of, "Sorry, buddy," that Simon's known for using. "I'll ask Eric later and see if he knows anything," he tells Jace. "We'll find something. It's only Wednesday, after all."

 _Here's hoping_ , Jace thinks.

* * *

He rests the bat against the umbrella rack, announcing his presence as the metal rattles against the floor.

"Mom, I'm home!" he calls out. Jace doesn't hear much of a response from Jocelyn, but he assumes she's too fixated on a painting to hear anything beyond her workroom. He unbuttons the baseball jersey and peels it off as he passes the door to the kitchen; the tank top underneath is stained and covered in paint, having previously been used in Jace's own attempts at art.

He's not as good as his mother, but he's not horrendous either. A modern Picasso, he likes to think. Just not as widely known or revered. Jace walks through the living room—spotting his mother bent precariously over a canvas, laid out horizontally as she scrapes at the paint with a thin wire. He does his best not to startle her, sneaking past with the grace of a housecat, and flings the jersey through his opened bedroom door.

It's easy enough to shower and brush his teeth without startling his mother, as well. It's hard to hear anything going on in the bathroom—which can be hazardous, seeing as neither will hear if the other slips and falls—and by the time Jocelyn notices the door is shut, Jace will be dressed again and admiring his reflection in the mirror. It's a daily ritual at this point; clean, gleam, and beam. Make sure he's his usual, radiant self, and then bask in it until he's caught in the act.

He doesn't hear the door open as he scrubs at his hair with the towel, but he does hear Jocelyn clear her throat softly to get his attention. Jace looks around the edge of the towel curiously, though it's hard to spot the redheaded woman with the amount of hair sticking to his face.

"Did you have fun with Simon today?" she asks. Jace grins and nods.

"Good weather," he notes. "If you weren't busy with your piece, I'd say we should get groceries while it's still nice outside."

She laughs guiltily. Even Jocelyn knows how much they don't get to interact together now that they're both as busy as the other. Jace can fondly remember every time he, Luke and Jocelyn would just go on trips to places, right up until he was twelve; Jocelyn never looked as tired then. Though, Jace thinks, the depression wasn't as bad back then either.

Jocelyn tiptoes into the bathroom and reaches around Jace. She whisks off the incense burner and gives it a quick wipe on her shirt. "I didn't realise how time consuming this type of piece would be," she sighs. There's a flicker of hope in her eyes after she says this, and then she's hurriedly blurting out, "Luke should be coming by later, though. Why not go with him? Everything would fit in his truck, if you want to stock up with a few things."

It sounds like a good idea. Jace is just worried that Jocelyn will stress, now that she's not focused on something. She has a bad habit of doing that, and sometimes it makes Jace wonder just how badly his father's death truly impacted her.

He's never met Jonathan Clarke, only ever saw pictures of the man, but from what Jace can tell Jocelyn loved him dearly. He used to wonder, when he was fourteen, if seeing Jace made Jocelyn sadder. She'd always tell him when she was too drunk to hold back her emotions that Jace looked just like his father. From what Jace can tell, though, it hasn't been easy for his mother to raise a copy of his father.

"Sure," he says. He almost hesitated in answering, almost wanted to ask if she'd be okay. "Want us to pick anything up? Paints? Sponges?"

She waves a hand at him. "It's fine. I got some this morning."

Jace nods and smiles. Jocelyn smiles back, and then she's creeping back out of the bathroom as though afraid she'll disturb his peace.

The Fray house returns to a state of quiet. The smell of lavender wafts through the doorway as Jace finishes up the last inspection of his face. He turns his head to the right, staring at the left side of his face—one pale green eye stares back at him, a sign of his heritage from his mother. He turns his face to the left, now gazing at the right side of his face—the mirror shows one golden eye staring back at him, a trait most likely borrowed from his father.

He frowns at the eye and rubs at it as he turns away from the mirror.

Jocelyn is back to her project, once again unable to focus on anything else outside of her immediate person. Jace doesn't disturb her—refuses to disturb her—as he walks past the couch. He sneaks into the hall and makes a beeline for Jocelyn's bedroom, the door left ajar from her last entry. Hidden in the bottom drawer of her dresser, kept neatly in their little day makers, Jace finds her medication. Like every day she feels off, unable to pay attention as well as usual, Jace runs a finger over the current week and makes sure that the night before has been emptied.

He finds himself holding back a tired sigh when he sees Tuesday's case still full.

Sometimes Jace can't tell who's the parent and who's the child in this house. After Jocelyn started taking a nosedive with her mental health, refusing to go out unless it was for doctor's appointments or stocking up on craft supplies, Jace has had to take over with daily chores. If Jocelyn is unable to lift herself out of bed in the morning, he plans out the whole day's meals and cleans up after his mother. If Jocelyn bursts into tears, Jace wraps her in a blanket and tries to get her to sleep before calling Luke for help. Hold her hand and stay in the room while she sleeps, promising not to leave unless he'll be back right away—all things a parent would do to their child as a way of comfort.

He tucks the pills back where they were. Sneaks out of the room and moves for the front door. He calls out to Jocelyn as he tugs on his sneakers, telling her he'll wait downstairs for Luke. Jocelyn doesn't respond, but he can hear her shuffle around her painting softly.

The entire wait for Luke to arrive is filled with Jace pacing in the lobby. He can't decide if he wants to sit on the stairs, wait outside, or give Luke a call and tell him to meet him somewhere. All of them would involve Jace being left alone with his thoughts—his concerns—but pacing doesn't leave him anywhere better.

His lip is almost chewed raw by the time the truck pulls up outside. Jace jumps into attention, spotting Luke ease out of the truck with a grunt. The man's bushier and burlier than when Jace was younger, but he's unmistakably the Luke Garroway he knows.

Jace slides over to Madame Dorothea's door, knocks thrice. He waits eagerly in silence as footsteps move in his direction. The door opens only an inch, one dark brown eye peering up at him from within.

Jace shakes his head as he says, "I'm so sorry to ask this, but can you keep an eye on Mom? I have to go out for a bit and I'm worried—"

A hand pokes out and shoos him away. "I'll be sure to call you if something happens," she cuts him off. There's an annoyed edge to her voice, like she dislikes being bothered over the wellbeing of another adult. For all Dorothea knows, Jace is just a worrywart son who doesn't trust his mother to be on her own.

If Jace were to be honest, he is.

"Thank you," he breathes. "I'll be back as soon as possible, I swear."

She only answers by shutting the door in his face. It's as good as any farewell he'll get from her.

Jace is quick to drag Luke back to his truck before the man has so much as a chance to check on Jocelyn. He'd rather let Luke know beforehand, as it's hard nowadays to talk about Jocelyn without her getting irritable and kicking Luke out. Luke is quick to note the urgency in Jace's movements, though only offers a concerned glance as he climbs back into the truck and inserts the key. They both look up to the upper windows of the brownstone, almost as though expecting to see Jocelyn watching from one of them. She isn't, and Jace can only hope the project will keep her distracted until he gets back home.

"So," Luke huffs. The brownstone is out of sight, free from their concerned gazes. "How is she today?"

Jace shrugs. "I haven't been home for long," he confesses. "I don't think she's good, though. She's skipped the past few days."

Luke cringes at the information. "I'll have a talk with her."

Jace can only nod and stare out his window, unwilling to continue on now that he knows Luke will take action. Jocelyn always listens to Luke—sometimes even looks to him like a lifeline. Jace is almost relieved she doesn't look to him the same way, but at the same time it's disheartening. As selfish as it sounds, he at least wants her to acknowledge that he's been there for her when Luke couldn't.

The truck pulls up in front of the grocery store, but neither of them move to get out. Jace hesitates, pulling at a loose thread on his shirt, while Luke watches him carefully.

After a moment of sitting and staring, Luke asks, "What's wrong, Jace?"

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "Do you think Mom has a hard time being around me?" he mutters. "Because I look like Dad?"

Luke sighs heavily. He almost can't look at Jace as he considers his answer, like he can't bring himself to find something reassuring to say. Jace looks to the older man pleadingly, but instead is only met with Luke leaning his forehead on the top of the steering wheel.

"I don't know what to say, Jace," he admits. His tone is defeated and hopeless. It's the kind of tone you'd use when you cannot, for the life of you, think of how to comfort someone.

Jace exhales softly. "It's fine," he mumbles. Before Luke can offer anything else, he unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the truck. The conversation is dropped the moment Jace is out of the vehicle, and his usual relaxed projection makes its way onto his face as Luke follows suit.

Luke promises to stay for dinner tonight, if only to keep an eye on Jocelyn and grant Jace some sleep. Jace tells him he appreciates it, that he hopes Jocelyn feels better after catching up with Luke.

* * *

 **So quick background on a couple of things, also mostly to answer any questions.**

 **In this universe, Jonathan Wayland was instead born Clarissa Wayland - a similarity that Jocelyn had been unaware of when naming Clary. As of right now, Clary is eighteen years old, while Jace is seventeen and Simon is sixteen.**

 **Instead of experimenting with demon blood first, Valentine used Ithuriel's blood - thus giving Clary her extra angel blood - and _then_ experimented with Lilith's blood, while giving angel blood to Celine to help with her mood. Because of the combination of the demon blood in her system and losing both of her children, Jocelyn isn't exactly as stable as she'd been in the books, and is a bit more self-destructive whenever Jace and Luke around around to help. This means that Jocelyn's desire to save baby Jonathan was fuelled mostly by adrenalin, as it mentions she struggled to love him when he was born like in canon.**

 **Also as a change, mostly because of a small thing I noticed in canon regarding the angel blood, it's Clary who has the golden eyes while Jace retains _most_ of his mother's eyes. I noticed that, since Jace had been exposed to it longer in the womb, his eyes had changed colour; but because Clary hadn't been exposed as long, her eyes remained green. Since it's been reversed, I figured I'd play into the whole Jace having his mother's eyes a bit and give Clary the _luminous_ pair.**

 **Whew, geez. I hope that clears a few things up! If there's anything else I can clear up next chapter, let me know!**


End file.
